


looking at the world from the bottom of a well

by JohnCheese



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gattaca (1997), Complicated Relationships, Discrimination, False Identity, Found Family, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Slow Burn, Some Small Descriptions of Medical Procedures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-01-31 12:58:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18591730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnCheese/pseuds/JohnCheese
Summary: Eugene Sledge knew he was given the short straw from the moment of his birth. Born the old-fashioned way, and lacking the genetic alterations that his peers have, he knew he would always get picked last, get the worst jobs, and always be lowest on the totem pole. Although genetic discrimination is supposed to be illegal, they now have it down to a science. Luckily for Eugene, the upper hand isn't too hard to obtain - if you have the time and money to pay for it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> if you read the tags, you'll probably notice that this is an au of the 1997 movie Gattaca. having seen it is not a requirement! in fact, if you haven't seen it, maybe wait to watch it and just enjoy the ride. for those of you who have seen it, please note that while there will obviously be extra things since it's an au, some scenes are actually from the screenplay and were not included in the final cut of the movie, or were outtakes from the movie.
> 
> also, i am hoping subsequent chapters will be a little longer than this one!

Merriell Shelton scrubs himself down inside the cold, steel tube. He takes his time, using a brush with stiff bristles. He scrubs his arms, his legs, leaving the skin painful as he does so. Leaving nothing to chance, he scrubs everything down once more, wincing as it scrapes across the more sensitive patches of skin. A fine-toothed comb is tugged through his curly hair, pulling out any loose strands. Merriell picks up a loose strand, studying it close for a moment before letting it drop to the floor with the others. Satisfied that he was clean, he hauls himself up, cracking open the door slightly to find a towel to wrap around his waist before he steps out. The door is shut firmly. Merriell presses a button next to the machine, not taking any notice as the incinerator roars to life behind him.

Quietly, he pads through the cavernous apartment to the bathroom. His roommate was asleep, and would get grumpy if woken up this early by his noise. The bathroom and the incinerator were annoyingly far away from each other. Merriell shivers slightly as he passes the tables and tables of shiny steel machinery, goosebumps rising on his skin. His eyes catch on a familiar shape - his roommate. The man was asleep, hunched over on one of the work tables. A half-empty bottle of vodka rests on the table before him, hand poised as though he had fallen asleep holding it. Although he would hate to be woken up, Merriell concedes that waking up in bed was better than waking up here.

Merriell pries the bottle from his roommate's hand, gently patting his shoulder to try and wake him up. His roommate barely stirred. This time, he tries shaking his shoulder, and this gets a rise, a low groan as he was pulled back to consciousness.

"Hey. You must've been pretty drunk last night, you fell asleep on the worktable again. Do you want me to bring you to your bed?"

Another noise, this one of assent.

Rolling his eyes, Merriell nudges him into a sitting position and pulls him away from the table, the wheelchair making not a single sound as he wheels it to his flatmate's bedroom. The covers are pushed aside, and with some effort, Merriell manages to haul his roommate into his bed. For his credit, he gives some effort to help, although his inebriated state and the dead weight of his legs certainly did not help in the slightest. Finally, Merriell pulls the covers back over the sleeping form, certain he would not wake up for at least another few hours.

As Merriell shuts the door behind him, he hears a weak voice say, "Have a good day at work."

Finally able to make his way to the bathroom, Merriell pauses to survey this space as well. It was just as he had left it - as pristine as the inside of the incinerator, not a single loose hair laying anywhere for someone to find. He shivers once more as his arm brushes the steel counter, and again as he opens the refrigerator that takes up most of the space.

It isn't filled with food - instead there are jars, and silicone pouches. Some are empty, ready for use, while others contain one of two liquids: urine, or blood. One of the jars has a note, presumably from his roommate, reading: "Shopping list: Truffles, Cigs, Vodka". Merriell huffs out a laugh as he takes the note, picking out one of the jars as well, making sure to check the label for the date. Good enough. Grabbing a silicone packet with a tube snaking from it, he fills it up, testing the valve on the urine packet by emptying it into the toilet. Also good enough. Reaching down, Merriell tugs off the towel and attaches the pouch to his inner thigh.

The refrigerator is reopened to pull out a tray, this filled with small, skin-colored sachets, each the size of a fingertip, each filled with blood. Carefully, oh so carefully, Merriell picks one, adhering it to the index finger of his right hand. Another is administered to his middle finger. Makeup is pulled out, carefully applied so no one would be able to tell where his skin ended and the prosthetic began. Satisfied, the supplies are put away, the towel is put back on, and Merriell heads upstairs to his bedroom.

His space is up a spiral staircase, leading to a condominium with a similar layout to the one below. Admittedly, Merriell spent most of his time downstairs with his friend, but this was his space and he enjoyed having it here. For him, the floor-to-ceiling windows were his favorite part. He paused to admire the view - sunlight was just barely starting to make its way over the horizon, colors bleeding high up into the sky as it forced the darkness of night away.

In his bedroom, a suit inside a plastic sleeve is already laid out on the bed. The tag reads, "Confidentiality guaranteed". Underwear is pulled on, shirt tucked in, tie tightened, and hair slicked back, all while making sure the prosthetics on his fingers stay in place. The suit looks smart on him, dark black with a tie to match. It was cut rather unconventionally, but Merriell was used to it by now.

_Somewhere, the Investigator swims. He is giving it all he's got, desperately working against the tide that pushes against him. The pool is small, for one person, the current propelled by jets. Suddenly, he stands up. The tide goes still around him. Swimming is not merely an enjoyable past time for him._

Merriell takes the car, as immaculate as the rest of his person. It had been vacuumed out last night, as usual, and it gleams in the early morning light as he pulls out of the parking garage. On the lawn of the complex, a gardener trims the grass. Merriell gives a wave as he passes. The electric car whirrs quietly as he heads to work. There are few people around this early, and he enjoys the relative quiet of the highway as he heads to work.

Large letters on the front of the building: "Gattaca Aerospace Corporation". Low, modern, and industrial, the Gattaca building matches his suit perfectly. The inside looks exactly as the outside suggests. Dark, earthy colors and lighting built perfectly into the architecture. Around him, hundreds of others make their way to work as well. They're dressed similarly, strangely cut suits and carefully slicked back hair, in every ethnicity you could imagine. Ahead of him lies a bank of gates, the employees dutifully lining up to be let through one by one. On his turn, Merriell steps up to the gate, placing his index finger on a small panel. With a small click, a sample of blood is taken.

A noise of affirmation chimes, and a small light turns green. Merriell is allowed to pass through. The ID screen on the machine reads: "Merriell A. Shelton. VALID". A picture pops up as well, dark curly hair, grey eyes.

He strides confidently to his workstation, pausing only briefly to look down at the pinprick of blood on the tip of his finger.

Somewhere, in deep space, a Gattaca spacecraft skirts around an asteroid. It moves smoothly, someone experienced clearly at the helm. Taking the opportunity, it moves closer to the asteroid, using its gravitational pull to slingshot around it. The scene stops. Reverses a little. Once again, the spacecraft glides around the asteroid, this time taking a slightly different route. Merriell stares at the simulation on his computer screen, trying to work out the best way to move around the asteroid. On the left side of his screen, rows and rows of code are presented, comprehensible only to aerospace programmers such as Merriell. When he types, he does not miss a single character, not once taking his eyes off of the screen.

The room he sits in is cavernous. Hundreds of other programmers sit at identical workstations, each with their own simulation to work on and design. The desks are arranged in concentric circles. At the center sits a round desk of supervisors, looking over their work from their own computer screens. The room is quiet, mostly filled with the clacking of keyboards, soft footsteps, and the occasional murmur of voices. The walls were frosted glass, behind them, a forest scene. Merriell knew the forest was fake, merely an LCD display meant to keep them feeling calm. Other than the fake forest, the room is pristine, almost clinically so.

Pulling himself away from his screen, Merriell opens a drawer on his desk, pulling out a small handheld vacuum. His desk is cleaned off, taking extra care to clean the keyboard fully. 

"You keep your workstation so clean, Merriell."

Merriell masks his surprise well, too busy cleaning his desk to notice Director Josef approaching from behind him. "Close to Godliness, isn't that what they say, Director?"

Josef smiled, pulling out a small disk in a plastic case from within his suit jacket. "I reviewed your flight plan, Merriell. Not a single keystroke out of place in a hundred thousand characters. Phenomenal." Josef leaned in, placing a hand on Merriell's shoulder. "It's right that someone like you is taking us to Titan." He paused, then, eyes moving from Merriell's face to his computer screen, to a notification that had popped up in the corner. Merriell follows his gaze. 

"Looks like you have a substance test," Josef says, patting his shoulder, and walks away to let Merriell continue with his day. Behind the director, Burgin walks past, giving Merriell a small smile as he does so. A couple desks over, another programmer, Hamm, jumps slightly at the mention of a substance test.

Merriell raises an eyebrow at Hamm knowingly, and Hamm quickly gets back to work. Surreptitiously, as if to scratch his ankle, he reaches down, fishing a small, clear pouch out of his sock. It is filled with biological matter - skin, hair follicles, a couple strands of hair. Making sure nobody notices Merriell sprinkles it across his keyboard and his desk, trying to make it look like it had been there all along. Opening his desk, the hair is inserted between the teeth of a comb inside. Satisfied with his work, Merriell stands up and heads to his substance test.

Just like everything else in Merriell's world, the testing lab is spotless and clinical. Lamar, however, was far from clinical. He was mid-forties, with a buzzcut, but was one of the friendliest faces around Gattaca, in Merriell's opinion. Lamar's white labcoat is perfect as he checks Merriell's eyes. Lamar gives a satisfied little smile at the examination, knowing there could be nothing wrong with his eyes, before passing a small plastic container over to Merriell - a urine cup.

Used to it by now, and with little hesitation, Merriell unzips, flowing steadily from the pouch on his thigh.

Lamar speaks up, watching Merriell with admiration. "Merriell... never shy, pisses on command. You've got a beautiful cock. I ever tell you that?"

"Only every time I'm here."

Finished, Merriell hands the cup over to Lamar and zips up again.

"I see a lot of cocks," Lamar continues, turning to pour the contents of the container into the funnel of a machine in the corner. The machine is quick to analyze, making a soft sound of approval. On the screen, it reads, 'Merriell A. Shelton - VALID' alongside an affirmation that he had passed the substance test. "... I speak from experience. Yours is a beautiful example. Why didn't my folks order a cock like that for me?"

"Don't know, Lamar. Perhaps your father thought he'd already have it settled," Merriell quips, mouth quirking in amusement.

Lamar laughs as he leads Merriell to the door. "If everything goes to plan, this could be the last time I see you for a while. One week to go... please tell me you're a least bit excited."

Merriell stops, leaning in conspiratorially, "I'll let you know at the end of the week."

The bathroom is quiet, only three out of twenty stalls taken. Nonetheless, Merriell stops in front of the mirror, studying his reflection for a few moments before leaning forward to study his tie. Unsatisfied, he tugs it loose, tying it again deftly. Almost on cue, a toilet flushes, and another employee steps out, giving Merriell a nod as he heads toward the sinks. Swiftly, Merriell takes the stall just vacated, locking it behind him. Reaching behind the toilet, he pulls out a small container hidden there - a contact lens holder. 

In one deft move, he reaches up, swiping virtually unnoticeable contact lenses out of his eyes, putting them in the toilet and flushing them. Two more are placed in his eyes with ease. The container is put back into its spot. At the sinks, Merriell leans in close to the mirror as he washes his hands to check if they are in correctly. 

Walking back to his workstation, the building is strangely quiet. The soft tapping of computer keys has stopped. To Merriell, it seemed that, perhaps, nobody was even breathing. He stops, then, rubbing at his eye - a contact lens not as nicely in as he had thought. After fixing it, he takes a moment to breathe, staring at the slick glass wall of the hallway, a warbled reflection peering back at him. Dark hair. Grey eyes. Confident.

Just one more week, he assures himself. One more week and I'll be up there on Titan, back up where I should be, among the stars.

With a deep breath, he continues on to his destination.

_It is the most unremarkable of events. Merriell Shelton, Navigator First Class, is only days away from a one-year manned mission to Titan, one of Saturn's moons. Nothing so unique in that. Last year, over one thousand citizens from every walk of life (yes, every) embarked on one space mission or another. Besides, selection for Merriell was practically guaranteed at birth. He is blessed with all the physical and intellectual gifts required for such an arduous undertaking, a genetic quotient second to none._

Merriell passes the glass-domed atrium on his way back to his desk, staring up into the sky, watching yet another rocket take off for some far off hunk of rock. The roar of its engines fills the eerily quiet space.

_No, there was nothing truly remarkable about the progress of Merriell Shelton... except that Eugene Sledge, Navigator First Class, was not Merriell Shelton. ___


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i forgot to write this earlier, but for the purposes of this story, eugene is the older brother.

_Eugene Sledge was conceived in the Riviera. No, not the French variety. A Buick Riviera. His parents, Mary and Edward, conceived him in the backseat of their car, a car that Edward had saved up for a long time to buy. They were young and hopelessly in love._

_They used to say that a child conceived in love had a greater chance of happiness. They don't say that anymore._

Mary, early twenties, lays on the operating table of the abortion clinic. She is prepared - in a hospital gown, feet up in stirrups. Her hands clenched in the thin material of her gown, she stares up at the ceiling, eyes flicking around at every minute detail above her. Surprisingly, Edward is not there - he is off at work, accepting of the procedure about to take place. Mary wishes, briefly, that he was here, but then decides against it in light of what she is about to do. A nurse, mid-forties, rolls a tray of instruments closer, but not before Mary sucks in a deep breath, extricating herself from the stirrups and standing up.

"- What are you doing?"

Mary shakes her head. "I can't do this."

"Oh, I - " the nurse pauses, considering for a moment, thoroughly misunderstanding what Mary is trying to say. "I told you, the government pays. I know your family is on a tight budget. It's all taken care of."

"No! You don't understand. _I can't do this._ " 

The nurse reassuringly puts a hand on Mary's shoulder, trying to guide her back to the table. "The doctor can give you something for the anxiety -"

Shoving the nurse's hand away, Mary shakes her head again, almost violently. "I'm not doing it."

"Honey," the nurse starts, "You made one mistake - " the remark hits something within Mary, head snapping up to look at the nurse, eyes narrowed. The nurse's tone softens as she continues, " - I've read your profile. I don't know about the father, but... you carry enough hereditary factors on your own." A pause. "You can have other children."

A hand, pressed protectively over the growing baby in Mary's stomach. "Not like this one."

The nurse continues to protest as Mary strides over to her clothes, draped over a chair, ripping off the gown to get dressed hastily. "Honey, look around you. The world doesn't want one like _that_ one."

Mary yanks on a shoe - "You don't know what it will be." The other shoe is finally on, Mary snatching up her bag and heading straight for the door.

As she leaves, she hears the nurse call out, "Your child won't thank you!"

The drive home is a long one even though she knew the way. Her hands are shaky on the steering wheel, taking deep breaths at every stop sign, trying to push down the anger still bubbling, nested just under her heart. Just above the baby. The neighborhood is just as she had remembered it, but now she sees it in a different light. The Valids were easy to spot only because the in-Valids looked so different. Not physically, no. Just dejected. Sad. Like there was nothing left for them to do but sit and wait to die.

Is that what she was going to subject her child to? A life of missed opportunities? No, she thought. I won't let that happen. I'm going to love this child no matter what. As she drives, the faces of the people she passes begin to blur. She wonders, was that person actually an in-Valid, or were they just having a bad day?

By the time Mary arrives home, she is calm, but no less uncertain about the situation she now finds herself in. With another calming, deep breath, she picks up the phone in the kitchen and dials Edward at work.

"Hi. Yes, this is Mary Sledge. I need to speak with Edward, thank you." After a moment of being put on hold, Edward picks up.

"Mary? Are you done already?"

A pause.

"Mary?"

"I couldn't do it, Edward."

"Couldn't do...? Oh."

"I kept the baby."

 _Those were the early days - days when a priest could still persuade someone to put their faith in God's hands rather than the local geneticist._

At the birthing clinic, Mary and Edward hold hands, a rosary clutched between their fingers. They hadn't quite been ready - the baby wasn't due to come for another two weeks. Nonetheless, Edward had rushed her to the birthing clinic, willing to accept an in-Valid baby but knowing it might not survive if they gave birth any other way. Mary is bathed in sweat, face screwed up in pain, clutching hard to her husband's hand. With one final push, her son is born.

The nurses have their priorities straight. Before the umbilical cord is even cut, the heel of the newborn baby is pricked, the baby giving a loud, sudden cry at the pain. The blood is collected on a test strip and inserted into a machine nearby. Finally, the umbilical cord is cut and the baby is washed off, a nurse swaddling the squirming child as the machine starts to whirr, spitting out coils and coils of paper. Mary is feebly reaching for her child, rosary dangling from her fingers, giving a soft sigh when she is finally allowed to hold him.

The nurses move over to look at the data, giving each other a look after only a few seconds.

Edward sensed the change in the room. "What's wrong?"

_Of course, there was nothing wrong with him. Not so long ago he would have been considered a perfectly healthy, normal baby. Ten fingers, ten toes. That was all that used to matter. But now his immediate well-being was not the sole concern._

The nurses exchange another glance, shuffling through the loops of paper to find the most important information. Trying to remain impartial, she starts reading off data: "Nerve condition, probability 60%. Manic depression, probability 42%. Obesity, probability 66%. Attention deficit disorder, probability 89%..."

_All his destiny mapped out before him - all his flaws, predispositions and susceptibilities - most untreatable to this day. Only minutes old, the date and cause of his death was already known._

"... Heart disorder, probability 99%, early fatal potential." The nurse stops, hesitant to read the last bit of data. Edward looks on expectantly. "Life expectancy, 30.2 years."

Putting down the sheets of data, the nurse picks up a clipboard, clicking a pen open against its surface. "The name?" She asks, starting to fill out the form. "For the birth certificate."

Mary looks up, hand gently petting the wispy hair on top of her baby's head. "He should be named Edward -"

" - No, Eugene." Edward interjects. 

The name 'Eugene B. Sledge' is recorded on the birth certificate. Edward signs it.

At two years old, Eugene is much like any child his age. He loves to play and run around with other children (if his parents let him) and the front yard is as big of an adventure as a jungle. The day is bright and beautiful, full of wonder for someone so young. Mary oversees closely. Playing with his toy rocket, Eugene runs across the lawn, foot suddenly catching on something in the grass, stumbling more out of clumsiness than fatigue.

Almost immediately, Mary is there gathering Eugene up in her arms. "Oh, Eugene, I can't let you out of my sight, can I?" She is almost in hysterics, frantically pressing her ear to Eugene's chest to listen to his heartbeat. Eugene seems mostly surprised, letting his mother do as she pleases.

Only somewhat relieved, Mary stands up, fetching a blanket and a portable oxygen tank from where she was sitting. The blanket is set down, the oxygen tank put on Eugene, and Eugene is plopped firmly down on the blanket.

"Now," Mary says, "You can play outside but you have to keep your butt on the blanket and you have to keep the oxygen on, alright?" She presses a kiss to the top of Eugene's head.

_He was born Eugene Bondurant Sledge. And from an early age he came to think of himself as others thought of him - chronically ill. Every skinned knee and runny nose treated as if it were life-threatening._

_His parents soon realized that wherever he went, his genetic prophecy preceded him._

Being two years old, and wanting to go back to work, his parents decided it was time for Eugene to go to daycare. It was the local daycare, a little expensive, but going back to work would help with that. It was nice, even Edward had to admit. Although the gates and fences were made to keep the children nicely corralled when they played outside, they had a fresh paint job, the metal in interesting shapes to keep them occupied. It was recess, children running about, having fun on swings, taking turns on the slides. 

A man named Toby meets them at the front gate with a large smile, welcoming them in, immediately directing his attention to Eugene. "Hey there, this must be Eugene," he says.

"This sure is," Mary says, "Seems like he enjoys it here already." 

It's true. Mary is holding him tight in her arms, but Eugene doesn't even seem to notice Toby talking to him. Instead, he is focused on the other children, eyes catching on the colorful playground equipment, starting to squirm a little in an effort to get down from his mother's arms. Mary obliges, setting him down on the ground. A little unsteady but recovering quickly, Eugene starts to toddle off toward the other children.

"Actually, um, why don't we go inside." Toby offers, making a motion toward the front door of the daycare.

"Come on, Eugene," Mary says, reaching for her son. Edward grabs him up quickly before she can take Eugene's hand.

The inside of the daycare is cool, and smells exactly like every other daycare tends to do. Graham crackers and toy disinfectant. Children's artwork is hung up on the walls, finger-painted families made by proud five year olds. Somewhere, they can hear a class of older children reciting the alphabet. Edward sets Eugene down again, and Mary gives her husband an optimistic smile. Edward doesn't look too sure. They are led down equally decorated hallways as Toby talks, explaining the nature of the daycare, how much it would cost, and so on. Small cubbies with names above them give Mary a rush of joy when she sees them.

The door they arrive at, however, makes something heavy settle in the pit of her stomach.

"... You put on the interest form that Eugene is in-Valid, correct?" Toby is asking as they approach the door, a room in the way back of the daycare. "As you understand, in-Valids present somewhat of a liability for us, but we do the best we can for them."

The feeling congeals into something awful when Toby opens the door. This is clearly where the daycare keeps their in-Valid students. The room is quiet and dim. On the floor, cots are laid out, about fifteen or so students asleep or merely laying there, half-lidded eyes looking around at the room. Some of them, Mary thinks, must actually need this type of treatment. But to her eyes, many of them look the same as the ones outside - children who could be running around happily with the other kids, indistinguishable except for their genetic makeup. It is not merely nap time for these children, Mary knows, this is the majority of their school day.

Mary immediately snatches Eugene up, hissing at Toby through her teeth so as not to wake the students. "This is what you do with in-Valid children? Just make them sleep all day? Why can't they play with the other children, or at least give them books to read?" She pushes past Edward, heading for the car.

Giving a quick apology to a bewildered Toby, Edward starts after her. "Mary! Wait! We don't have any other choice, Eugene will be just fine here!"

She doesn't seem to hear him, storming out the front door, leaving the playground gate open behind her. Edward closes it behind him as he follows her to the Buick, still pleading as she buckles Eugene back into his car seat. 

"Mary, listen... this is what's best for him anyway, it's safest. You were the one who kept him on the blanket outside, how is this any different? And now you want him outside playing with the other kids?"

The slam of the car door makes a couple kids pause in their playing and look toward them for a moment. Mary is furious for a couple more moments before it seems to drain out of her, arms resting on the top of the car as she sags against it. "Edward, that... that was a mistake. We need to be careful with him, but, maybe not that careful." She sighs, standing up. "Get in the car. We're going home."

_They put off having any more children until they could afford not to gamble - to bring a child into the world in what has become the 'natural' way._

_It meant selling the beloved Buick._

_His father got a good price for it. After all, the only accident he'd ever had in that car was Eugene._

The name of the closest geneticist office is called "Pro-Creation", and they take the city bus to get there. Their geneticist is a man named Dr. Richards; tall, dark skin, and handsome. His office is welcoming. There are perfectly arranged knickknacks on shelves, with toys lower down so kids accompanying their parents could play. There is a comfortable, low couch in front of the desk. The wall behind the desk is nothing but glass-doored refrigerators, rows upon rows of petri dishes laid out. On one side of the desk, facing the couch, sits a monitor, on but blank. Dr. Richards has his back to them as they enter, looking at something beneath a high powered microscope. He turns around in his chair almost immediately, flashing a bright smile and standing to shake their hands over the desk.

"Mary, Edward, nice to see you. Please, sit down."

The couple obliges, and Eugene is let go to play with the toys on the lower shelves while the adults talk.

"Make yourself comfortable, give me one moment while I put up the dish." Dr. Richards says, moving toward one of the refrigerators in the back. The metal gleams as he opens one of the doors, picking out a labeled petri dish from a row close to the front of the tray. Returning to the desk, he pulls off the cover, placing the dish on another microscope atop his desk and sitting back down. The screen fills, and there they are. Four clusters of cells, only eight cells each, are shown on the monitor. Nothing but specks to the naked eye, for Edward and Mary, they represent everything they couldn't do with Eugene.

"Your extracted eggs," Dr. Richard starts, "Mary, have been fertilized with Edward's sperm and we have performed an analysis on the resulting pre-embryos. After screening we're left with two healthy boys and two healthy girls. Naturally, no critical pre-dispositions to any of the major inheritable diseases. All that remains is to select the most compatible candidate."

On the couch, Mary and Edward exchange a somewhat nervous smile.

"First, we may as well decide on gender. Have you given it any thought?"

"Well, uh, we would like Eugene to have a brother- you know, to play with." Mary says, looking over to Eugene. He is keeping himself occupied with a large, chunky model of a protein structure, currently focused on the red orb that connects two of the strands together.

"Of course, I'm sure Eugene would love that." Dr. Richards says, smiling over at him, before turning his attention back to his own monitor. "You've already specified blue eyes, dark hair, and fair skin. I have taken the liberty of eradicating any potentially prejudicial conditions, you know, premature baldness, myopia, alcoholism and addictive susceptibility, propensity for violence and obesity-"

Mary cuts in. "We didn't want... _diseases_ , yes."

Edward chimes in, slightly more diplomatic. "We were wondering if we should leave some things to chance."

The doctor flashes another reassuring smile. "You want to give your child the best possible start. Believe me, we have enough imperfection built in already. Your child doesn't need any additional burdens. And keep in mind, this child is still you, simply... the best of you. You could conceive naturally a thousand times and never get such a result."

Reaching down, Edward takes Mary's hand and squeezes it, against her small frown of concern. "He's right, Mary," he says, "That's right." Mary doesn't seem fully convinced, but the doctor moves on quickly.

"Is there any reason you'd want a left handed child?"

"Um... no?" Edward responds, drawing a blank.

Dr. Richards explains: "Some believe it is associated with creativity, although there's no evidence. Also, for sports like baseball, it can be an advantage."

Edward shrugs. "I like football."

"I have to warn you, Mr. Sledge, he's going to be at least a head taller than you." Dr. Richards jokes, trying to lighten the conversation a little. "Prepare for a crick in the neck in, oh, sixteen years time." At this, Edward straightens up, already beaming proudly over his unborn son.

"Hmmm... anything I've forgotten?" The doctor asks.

Mary is hesitant, giving her husband's hand another squeeze. "We want him - we were hoping he would get married and have children. We'd, we'd like grandchildren."

Dr. Richards smiles, a little conspiratorially. "That's already been taken care of." He pauses, then, looking back at his screen for a moment. "Now, I can only work with the raw material I have at my disposal, but... for a little extra, I could also attempt to insert sequences associated with increased mathematical or even musical ability, if you so choose."

Mary is immediately excited, pulling Edward closer. "Edward, the choir-!"

" - I have to caution you, it's not foolproof. With multi-gene traits, there can be no guarantees, unfortunately."

Edward speaks up. "How much extra?"

"It would be five thousand more." Dr. Richards answers.

Immediately, Edward's face falls. They had already sold the Buick to afford this procedure. As nice as the opportunity to have a child especially gifted in music or mathematics sounded, the money just wasn't there. "I'm sorry. There's no way we can."

"Don't worry. You'll probably do just as well singing to him in the womb." Dr. Richards stands, their appointment obviously coming to an end. "Mary, we can implant the most successful pre-embryo tomorrow afternoon."

Mary, however, is still staring quietly at the four magnified clusters of cells on the screen. "What... what will happen to them?" she asks, finally standing up.

Dr. Richards removes the petri dish from under the microscope. "They're not babies, Mary. Merely... human possibilities." He points to one of the specks, nearly invisible to the naked eye. "Smaller than a grain of sand."

_That's how his brother, Edward Jr., came into the world. A son Eugene's father considered worthy of his name._

_By the time they were playing at blood brothers, Eugene understood that there was something very different flowing through his veins, and he'd need an awful lot more than a drop if he was going to get anywhere._

When Eugene is thirteen, Edward Senior is still marking their heights on a door frame in marker. The eldest, Eugene goes first, proudly stretching up to his full height against the wood. His father presses a hand down atop his head to make sure he isn't cheating by standing on his tiptoes. A mark is made. When Eugene steps back, 'Eugene, 13' is written above the line. 

Next is Edward, his brother. At two years Eugene's junior he is already noticeably taller than Eugene, but he's hoping the wall won't prove it. Edward's back is pressed against the doorjamb as Edward Sr. makes a mark, the phrase 'Edward, 11' written just above. Much to Eugene's dismay, Edward's line is higher - much higher. At eleven years old, Edward Jr. is almost an inch and a half taller than Eugene is.

Edward Sr. survey's Edward's line for a moment, before proudly ruffling his son's hair, oblivious to Eugene's fury as he stomps back to his room.

The beach near their house was one of their favorite places to run off to. At this age, they are allowed to go where they please in the neighborhood, and more often than not it is the beach. The brothers tended to incorrectly dub it as 'their' beach, but it might as well have been. It was a patch of sand between two huge boulders, a place nobody but two young boys would try to go swim. They often found interesting things in the sand; crabs, seashells, sand dollars.

The wind shifts the sand slightly as Eugene and Edward sit together on the beach. Eyes darting around behind his glasses, Eugene's eyes settle on a particular shell, stretching to pick it up without standing. It is broken, its edge sharp. Pressing it to his thumb, Eugene winces as he makes a cut, a single drop of blood dripping down his skin.

The shell is handed to Edward. Eugene intends for him to do the same, imagining they'll press their thumbs together once he's done so. Edward considers it for a moment, staring at his own thumb, before tossing the shell away and standing up. He pulls his shirt off and starts toward the ocean, knowing Eugene will follow.

Lacking parent supervision, their favorite game to play at the beach was "chicken". They would get into the water and swim, farther than they should have, past the breaker waves, as far out as they dared. It was about who would get scared and turn back first, and about who dared to keep going.

As expected, Eugene follows his younger brother, pulling off his own shirt. His glasses are set down atop the crumpled fabric. They approach the edge of the water together, Eugene squinting without his glasses. They exchange no words, simply looking at each other before splashing into the water together, diving in once the water is deep enough. It's lukewarm, not enough to steal Eugene's breath but enough to give you a pause. He ignores the temperature and keeps swimming. Edward is right there, next to him, looking calm and collected. Eugene, on the other hand, can already feel his muscles protesting, his heart pressing up into his throat.

Suddenly, he can't go on any longer. He gives up abruptly - stopping mid stroke, gasping for air, tilting his head back to float as he regains his strength. Edward keeps on swimming.

_Of course, it was always Eugene. Edward was by far the stronger swimmer and, frankly, had no excuse to fail._

Eugene liked to build models, sometimes, and Edward would come watch as younger brothers are wont to do. Today it is a model of the solar system, set up using objects from around the house, an empty cul-de-sac, and careful pacing. At one side sits a large, inflatable exercise ball. In chalk, 'Sun' is written in thirteen year old Eugene's shaky handwriting. A golf ball to represent Mercury, Venus is a pom-pom taken from a hat, Earth a blue and green marble, while Mars is a piece of seaglass found at the beach. After this, a stripe of sand and gravel is laid out to represent the asteroid belt, beyond it lies the kickball that represents Jupiter.

For now, the space after Jupiter is empty. Instead, Eugene is measuring, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, each step representing thousands of miles of space. "155... 156..." Beside him, Edward follows along, watching Eugene's feet curiously.

Finally, Eugene finishes his count, turning on his heel and placing the apple in his hand on the ground.

Edward turns to survey the model thus far. "How many astronauts are there, anyway?" He asks. Eugene is too busy writing on the ground to answer. Edward snatches up the apple and goes to take a bite. "I bet I could be one."

Eugene straightens up indignantly, glaring at his younger brother. "Don't eat that, that's Saturn!"

By the time Eugene turns nineteen, this has become the norm. He likes to read, anything about space and the stars he can get his hands on. Today it's _Careers in Space_ , his nimble fingers flipping through the pages, pushing up his glasses to study a picture a little more closely. The book is worn, the spine cracking, pages dog-eared and with a couple of water spots to boot. Eugene has only had the book for a few months.

"Eugene... Eugene!" It is dinnertime, Eugene perched at separate table while his mother, father, and brother sit at their own, food on the table before them. Their table has a space where he could sit, but Eugene is much more comfortable here on his own. Startled by his name, he looks up from his book, to find his mother offering his plate of dinner.

"Hmm? Oh, thanks," he says, taking it from her. The plate is set down on the table and he returns to his reading.

Mary looks shocked, turning to make eye contact with her husband across the table. He tilts his head, trying to get her to make the first move. After a couple moments of this, Mary speaks up again, looking pointedly at _Careers in Space_. "Eugene, you have to be realistic. A heart condition like yours - "

"There's a chance there's nothing even wrong with me," Eugene responds, not even looking up from the book.

Edward Sr. speaks up this time. "There's a ninety-nine percent chance your heart will fail at any moment -

"- Which means there's a one percent chance that I'm fine." Eugene interjects, the book snapping shut. "I'll take that chance."

His father's face grows stormy, something bubbling just under the surface, biting his lip as he tries to hold back his words. Edward Sr. gives Mary another look before he lets it bubble over. "For God's sake, Eugene, don't you understand? _The only way you'll see the inside of a space ship is if you're cleaning it._ "

Eugene says nothing, staring at his parents, the guilty way Mary looks at her plate, the way his brother doesn't even respond, the way he watches the entire exchange with a type of detached curiosity. Eugene's expression is unreadable, eyes hard. "If you'll excuse me," he says, "I'm done with dinner."

Rising from his spot, Eugene picks up his dinner plate and places it in the sink, not a single bite taken. _Careers in Space_ is tucked under his arm as he retreats to his room, locking the door behind him. Faintly, he can hear the hushed whispers of his parents as he settles at his desk, flipping his book open to a dog-eared page.

The next day, Eugene has a job interview at a local law office downtown. The job he applied for was relatively simple, mainly filing paperwork, some basic mathematics. Eugene was, mentally, more than qualified for the job, and he was well aware of this. He had done exceptionally well in school, never quite the popular kid but always impressing his teachers with his grades and fairly impressive projects. He received highest honors when he graduated, but nobody really gave a shit that he was almost valedictorian. That honor would likely go to Edward. Even if Edward was doing poorly in school, everyone would be far more interested in him than Eugene.

His mother drops him off at the law office, waves goodbye, and drives off. Eugene stops before going inside, pausing to take a deep breath. His suit is adjusted, although it wouldn't really help - it used to be Edward's. Edward, being taller and more muscular, wore slightly larger clothes than Eugene did, and so the suit was a bit too big on him. Another deep breath, his resume balanced in one hand, careful not to wrinkle the paper.

The inside of the office is cool and quiet. A receptionist sits at the front desk, the rest of the work space hidden behind walls and glass doors.

He steps up to her, interrupting the click of her keyboard. "Hi, I'm uh, I'm here for the - "

"For the interview? Right this way." She says, standing up. Eugene is led to a small sitting room, where several other applicants sit and wait for their turn. They are of all ages, all applying for the same position, and that leads Eugene to understand that they must all be in-Valids like himself. He carefully sits down on a chair, looks over his resume one more time, and then takes off his glasses, tucking them inside his suit jacket.

The room is instantly blurry around him. A spike of anxiety fills his stomach, but he takes another deep breath, reminding himself to breathe. He had done smaller jobs for people he knew, babysitting here and there, helping with light yardwork (even they didn't trust his heart), but if he got this job it would be his first, real, paying job. Someone who was a proper part of the adult workforce, someone who, despite his in-Valid status, could contribute to society and not just clean as his father had said. Hopefully, it would lead to bigger and better things. Eugene thinks of the roar of the rockets he hears echo over their neighborhood and loses himself in the bliss of that idea as he waits his turn.

Eugene's interview lasts exactly one minute and forty-five seconds.

He is third, behind a balding Asian man who, to Eugene's blurry eyes, looks fairly pleased with how the interview went. The office is bright when he shuts the office door behind him. The man behind the desk is serious, looking down at a clipboard. Eugene waits, the man not even indicating that he should sit down yet, but sets his resume down on the desk politely.

"You're... Eugene Sledge?" he asks.

Eugene gives his most charming smile, knowing it had won over many short-lived boyfriends in high school. "Yes sir."

The interviewer reaches below his desk, pulling out something small and vaguely shiny in the harsh lighting. Even with his bad eyesight, Eugene knew what it was. A urine cup. The tight knot of anxiety swells until he thinks it might consume him. Without another word, Eugene picks up his resume, opens the door, and leaves.

It takes him almost two hours to walk home, but he does so. Still in his suit. Still holding on to his resume, and not bothering to put on his glasses until he gets through all the complicated streets and intersections of the downtown core. He could have taken the bus, but walking felt better. It gave him time to reflect, to think. What was he supposed to do? What did any of his intelligence matter, if he didn't have the genetics to go with it?

By the time he arrives home, something is there, in his mind, something frightening but everything he needed. Eugene pushes it aside as he shuts the front door behind him, the deadbolt clicking shut, the silent house echoing with some indescribable version of shame emanating off of him. The suit jacket is shucked off, falling to the floor of the entryway. Numb fingers pluck at the buttons of his shirt, eventually managing to tug them all loose, the garment drifting down to match. The nice shoes, now scuffed from the walk, the pants, the belt, the tie, all his costume molted and gathered up. Clutching at the useless fabric, Eugene heads to Edward's room, dumps it unceremoniously on his bed, and retreats to his room.

After another unceremonious family dinner, Eugene stays up late, poring over his resume in the darkness. It is now crumpled and wrinkled from his sweaty hands during the walk, but it doesn't matter. His parents hadn't even bothered to ask how it went, and Edward had gotten the message.

The paper is tucked into _Careers in Space_ to mark his spot, and Eugene falls asleep listening to rockets roar overhead.

_His father was right. It didn't matter how much Eugene lied on his resume, his real C.V. was in his cells. Why would anyone invest all their money to train Eugene, when there were a thousand other applicants with far better profiles? It was technically illegal to discriminate - "genoism", as it's called - but nobody took those laws seriously._

_If you refuse to disclose, they can always take a sample from a doorhandle. Or a handshake. Or even the saliva from a mailed-in application form. And if all else fails, a legal drug test can just as easily become an illegal peek at your future in the company._

Before Eugene leaves, he meets Edward at the beach one last time. The day is exactly the way it was before. An ocean rough enough to give some people a pause, but not those who knew what they were doing. Edward is shirtless; ready. Even at seventeen, he is muscular, someone who could already be considered for college swim teams and the like. Eugene has no doubt that he will live up to their parent's expectations. Eugene pulls his own shirt off, glasses perched atop the fabric. Just like last time. Compared to his younger brother he is scrawny, all pale skin and freckles.

"You sure you want to do this?" Edward asks, cocky.

Eugene ignores his brother's taunt, stepping toward the water. Behind him, he knows Edward is mocking him, laughing internally at his in-Valid brother who still thought he could win. 

They swim beyond the breakers, the water chilly for this time of year. At first, it is still the same. The two of them swim stroke for stroke. Edward turns, sometimes, checking if Eugene is still there. Eugene looks only toward the horizon. He keeps staring, swimming toward something an unimaginable distance away, and stops only when he can no longer sense his brother keeping up next to him. Turning, he can only see a mop of dark hair floating just on the surface. With little hesitation, Eugene turns back, grabbing Edward and pulling him to the surface. Edward splutters, only enough energy left to tread water slightly as Eugene drags him back to shore.

It is a monumental undertaking, but Eugene does it, the two of them flopping onto the sand of the beach, _their_ beach, as Edward coughs up water.

_It was the last time they swam together. Out into the open sea, like always, knowing each stroke toward the horizon was one they had to make back to the sore. The unspoken contest, as always._

_And it is the moment that makes the rest of it all possible._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! i hope you enjoyed this chapter, it was longer than the last chapter (though i feel it was somewhat rushed). next chapter will hopefully go a little slower, as this was mostly backstory/exposition. turning the movie plot into a fic is a bit difficult at times.
> 
> also, i will try to keep the updates as consistent as possible but i post the chapters as i finish them so it will be a bit inconsistent at times, my apologies for that in advance.


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